by Terri Kraus
“Mrs. Barnett,” Paula said, gesturing the older woman inside.
“Rose, remember. Not Mrs. Barnett.”
“Oh, sure. I’m sorry. Rose. I forgot. How are you?”
Rose entered and took two shuffling steps, now halfway into the living room. “We need to talk, Paula, about my son. Is your daughter asleep?”
Paula hurriedly nodded. “Always takes a nap in the afternoon. She’s a real good sleeper.”
Rose looked around. The sofa was cluttered with a rumpled comforter, a stack of magazines, and a Kleenex box on one arm. Two cans of Diet Coke were on the coffee table. The TV was on, turned down very low, and was playing reruns of American Idol. Rose didn’t like that show, didn’t like the title, thought the judges were mean-spirited, but knew the original episodes happened at night, not on Sunday afternoon. The small dining/kitchen table had two boxes of cereal in the middle—one of a very sugary, unhealthy variety, Rose noticed—and two empty bowls with spoons still in them. There was one oversized chair that might be a recliner sitting adjacent to the couch. It was empty, so that was the seat Rose took.
Paula tried to apologize. “The place is a mess, Rose. I just sat down for a minute after Bridget went down. I was about to start cleaning when you tapped.”
Rose decided to accept the lie as truth and offered a forgiving smile. “I remember what it’s like to be on your own with a little one. Oliver’s father—a wonderful Christian man—passed when he was seven and Tolliver was three. It wasn’t easy to keep up after things—that much I know. So no apologies are needed. A little clutter isn’t that bad, Paula. Really. Don’t think twice about it.”
But Paula’s face gave away her conclusion that Rose wouldn’t forget about it so easily.
In that moment Paula vowed, one of many such vows over the past couple of years, that from now on, she would keep her house neat and tidy—just in case.
“Did you see Oliver at church?” Rose’s question was much more than just a question, Paula thought—more of a command.
Paula tried not to appear flustered. “No. I mean, I didn’t get up in time. I’m sorry, Rose. Bridget sleeps later than normal on the weekends. During the week, when I work, I have to get her up and I hate doing that on Saturdays and Sundays when I don’t have to. She was still asleep when I checked, then it got too late to go. I’m really sorry I wasn’t there.”
Neither woman spoke.
“Did I miss something?” Paula finally asked, breaking the silence.
“No. Not really. They sang too many choruses today. Drives me batty. Over and over and over. Like God is hard of hearing or something. And the pastor’s message was okay, but nothing to write home about. It didn’t hit home with me. I didn’t see Oliver, either. I thought you might have. Or that he might have come over here. But his truck is gone, and I bet he went back to Pittsburgh.”
“I didn’t see him today. Just on Friday night. And I waved to him Saturday afternoon as he drove past.”
Rose adjusted the sleeves on her velour top. They came down past her wrists, and she had cuffed them twice, but the cuffs were uneven, Paula noticed.
“You had a good time?” Rose asked. “On Friday night. On your date. With my son.”
Paula nodded energetically. “We did. He is such a nice person. We get along really well. We always have.”
Rose nodded this time, much like a lawyer nods to get a witness to continue talking.
“I like him a lot, and I think he likes me. I mean … we’re older. So maybe relationships are different now. It seems like we’ll spend less time playing games. And we’ve known each other for a really long time. I mean, we dated way back in high school.”
Rose looked hard at the young woman. “You weren’t going to have sexual relations with my son when you went up to his apartment Friday night, were you?”
The words were flat and even, but Paula felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. “Goodness, no, Mrs. Barnett. We wouldn’t have done that. I mean, Oliver wouldn’t have. And I wouldn’t, either. No. We were just talking. That’s all. And I wanted to see his place.”
Rose sniffed, almost testing the air. “And that’s the truth?”
Paula leaned forward. She was wearing a very loose V-neck top and, in an attempt at being modest, pulled it close to her as she replied, “That is the truth. We were just there for a minute or two before you got home. Not enough time to do any fooling around, really.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rose said, indicating with her tone that Paula should indeed worry about it. “I trust my Oliver to do the right thing. A boy who is born again and has Jesus in his heart will not sin against God like that.”
Paula nodded in agreement, though she had no idea what Rose was talking about.
“You do know what born again means, don’t you, Paula? To know Jesus? You’ve been born again, right? You attend church. The pastor talks about it sometimes. You pay attention, right?”
Paula nodded, feeling like a used-car salesman answering a customer’s questions. “Sure, I understand. Born again. That’s important. Oliver knows how I feel about church. He knows that I agree with him on religion and all that. We talked about it.”
Perhaps for the first time since stepping inside Paula’s home Rose smiled legitimately. “You talked about religion with him? During your date? Really? Already?”
“We did. I said how important it was to me.”
“You did?”
“Yep,” Paula answered, trying not to sound too triumphant.
“Well, if you two are talking about religion, that’s a really big step. You can’t be talking about religion and then fool around willy-nilly, right?”
“Yeah … or no. You know. I agree with you.”
Rose slid forward and took Paula’s hand. It appeared unnatural for Rose to do so and was uncomfortable for Paula to experience.
“Listen, Paula, Oliver is a good boy. He’ll make a wonderful husband. And it is way past time for him to settle down. I know you’re a few years younger, but if Oliver sticks with a woman his own age, well, I might never have any grandchildren. Now you, Paula, I know you have Bridget, and she is a sweet child, but you’re young enough to have more, aren’t you? There are no female problems, are there?”
Paula shook her head, indicating no, but feeling unwilling to give voice to the answer.
“So you be nice to Oliver. You make him happy. I can see that. He’s a shy boy, and he needs someone like you to bring him out of his shell. You can do that, can’t you, Paula?”
“I think so. He seems happy when he’s with me. We were happy before, too.”
Rose squeezed the young woman’s hand and stroked her forearm in a motherly way. “He’ll come around, Paula. You are a beautiful woman. Any man would love to have you. And Oliver is ready to settle down. I know that. I talked to Pastor Mosco and asked him about it. He said that since you were abandoned by your husband, it would be okay for you and Oliver to get married in the church.”
There was a moment of silence. Paula appeared surprised by the word marriage. Then she smiled modestly, as if what she wanted was now out on the table, visible—something that would unite both women with a common cause and leave Oliver with few, if any, other options.
“That’s good. Religion is important,” Paula said, reaffirming her stand.
“Born again, right?” Rose repeated.
“Sure. Born again. That’s right,” Paula reasserted.
“And you have to keep him away from that Jewish woman. That’s not right. He knows it. He needs a nice, clean Christian woman—like you, Paula. Right? Like you.”
Rose squeezed her hand again and, as if by magic, Bridget started to cry, loudly.
Rose stood and said, finger to her lips, “You’re busy. I’ll let myself out.”
And she di
d, shuffling back home in her pink slippers with a very purposeful expression.
CHAPTER TEN
THE PLANE BANKED LEFT, roaring out of LaGuardia, sweeping over Long Island Sound, then kept banking until it was pointed due west, on its way to Pittsburgh. Flying first-class helped minimize the aggravation of traveling, Samantha realized, but she still found all the security checking and removing of shoes and belts and whatnot to be invasive and unsettling, allowing total strangers, often rude strangers, wearing white latex gloves, to paw through one’s personal possessions that you had to schlep through the long line. The Sunday-night flight was only three-quarters full, yet the first-class section was entirely occupied. Samantha knew most of the people now squatting in the section were there because of free upgrades, people “paying” for the privilege with some sort of frequent-flyer mileage account—not money out of their own pockets.
She thought there should be two first-class sections: one in which it recognized the passengers who actually paid hard personal cash for the luxury, and another section, with fewer amenities, for the knakers, the uncouth masses who happened to be forced to fly a lot for work or spent too much on their credit cards and were given the upgrade for free.
Behind her was a pair of construction workers, she imagined, whose union bosses had negotiated first-class travel for all their members when on business.
They obviously did not pay for these seats themselves.
The bar mitzvah had been lovely, very nice. The food at the Ritz-Carlton was uncommonly tasty—for banquet food, of course. The boy’s parents, one a stockbroker, the other a plastic surgeon, had spared no expense: a very smart, sophisticated jazz trio during dinner, a plethora of waiters circulating about the large crowd with full trays of elegant appetizers, a seven-course kosher meal, a dessert bar, a bar for adult drinks (all the best liquor, no cheap house brands, of course), and the bar was open all evening; plus there were wonderful personalized parting gifts for all the guests.
Nothing schlocky—premium all the way.
Samantha estimated a total event tab of nearly six figures for a celebration honoring a thirteen-year-old boy—a nice boy, but with an air of expected privilege that edged toward distasteful.
The seat-belt sign blinked off. Samantha sat in the wide leather seat by the window next to her father and watched New York disappear, while sipping at ginger ale, in a real glass, with a lime slice floating in the bubbling drink. The flight attendant tried to sell her on dinner, but neither she nor her father wanted the evening fare offered.
“But it’s steak. It looks really good,” the young woman asserted. “Just try it.”
Samantha’s father appeared pained. “Honey, I betcha that it’s the best airplane steak ever produced by your chefs back in the New York commissary, but both of us have spent the last two days fending off relatives who think we never eat properly. Oy, I gained five pounds and I don’t want any more heavy food. Just another drink. Make it a Virgin Mary this time, okay?”
“And another ginger ale with lime, please,” Samantha added.
The flight attendant took her time leaving, not understanding at all why a sane person would turn down a free meal—or rather, a meal that they had already spent part of a thousand dollars purchasing, since it came with the first-class seat.
“So, did we have a good time at the bar mitzvah?” Samuel asked.
Samantha shrugged. “I guess so. Too much food. Too many loud relatives. Too much everything. I’ve forgotten how exhausting family can be.”
“Being the black sheep of the family and living six hundred miles away has its advantages,” her father said. “I love them, but I’m so glad to be leaving them.”
“And they all asked me, about a hundred times, when I’m getting married and settling down with a nice Jewish man. At the end, I was telling people I was gay just to keep them quiet. Didn’t stop any of them, though. ‘A nice gay wedding would be wonderful,’ they said.”
Her father laughed along with her. “I heard you talking to my sister about it. Such a shadchen, she is—loves matchmaking and planning weddings. Doesn’t seem to matter who is getting married, as long as it’s a wedding.”
The flight attendant brought back fresh drinks. “You sure you haven’t changed your mind about the meal? They’re up there waiting for you, nice and warm.”
“No, we’re fine, doll. Really. But thanks for being concerned. Really,” Samuel repeated.
They both glanced up at the movie, some action-adventure epic starring someone who might have been a wrestler or a rap star at one time. Neither of them wanted headsets to listen to the warbly soundtrack.
“So, Samantha, when you got all those marriage questions, did you really mean it when you said that you’re probably never going to get married?”
“Daddy, now you’re at it too?”
“Just curious. As your father. You know your mother would be pushing you in that direction. Find a real mensch, some nice Jewish doctor or lawyer or CPA and settle down. She would have wanted that for you. Shalom. Contentment. Stability. Everything that comes with having a husband and a family.”
Peace? Contentment? That’s the impossible dream. Remember, Daddy? I’m destined to fail at love. Remember?
She wanted to tell her father about that last conversation with her mother … when she found out that she was doomed to failure. But she didn’t. She didn’t then, and she didn’t now.
Samantha stared at her father’s face, still tanned and relaxed, but she could see the care in his eyes, a parent’s concern—concern that he had not adequately been both father and mother these last twenty years since his wife’s death, that Samantha’s growth and maturity had suffered because her mother was dead, even though Samantha was nearly an adult when her mother passed away.
“Daddy, you, too?”
“Sam, ani ohev otach. I want the best for you. Someone to take care of you when I’m gone.”
“I love you, too, Daddy. You’re not going anywhere. You’re as healthy as an ox.”
“Halevai! I hope, but you know what I mean. Don’t become like Aunt Lydia, poor thing, living all alone in that rat-hole apartment.”
“She’s not a poor thing. And it’s not a rat hole. It’s a nice place. Small, but nice.”
“And still. You know what I mean. You’ll be richer when I’m gone. But being rich is worse if you’re alone. Being rich is hard, Bubeleh. People look at you different—like thinking what they can get out of you. That’s no fun. You wonder about who is really your friend, and who thinks they’ll get your table scraps. You need someone, Samantha, someone to be with, to grow old next to. Someone who appreciates you. That’s what I’m saying.”
“You don’t have anyone, Daddy. You’re growing old alone.”
Her father scowled, just a little, just so the lines around his eyes deepened.
“What?” she asked as she turned to face him.
“What what?” he replied.
She leaned close to him, then backward again. “You’re seeing someone. Who? Where? In Pittsburgh?”
He shook his head.
“In New York?”
“Maybe.”
“A relative? You’ll have deformed babies.”
Her father laughed out loud, so loud that the person in the seat in front turned around for just a second, just to show annoyance.
“No. A friend of a relative. That’s all I’m saying. That’s where I went the first night. Just dinner. She’s nice. She’s going to visit soon. She’s coming to Pittsburgh. She’s never been there. Can you imagine that? A cultured person who has never been to Pittsburgh. You’ll meet her then. And there’ll be no gossip allowed. I already reserved a nice suite for her at the Marriott.”
“Who? Who is it? Tell me.”
“You’ll meet her soon enough. It’ll be a
surprise.”
“Is she that young? Younger than me? Is that why you’re not telling me?”
Her father placed his half-consumed drink on the tray in front of him. He smoothed at his hair. “No. Not that young. But younger than me. Oy, everyone is younger than me.”
Samantha could only manage to stare in reply. She was a little angry, a lot amazed, but also perplexed because a new sort of ache and emptiness entered her soul.
Oliver woke up early Monday morning—way, way early, sometime just before 4:00. Robert woke to his master’s rustling, padded over from his dog bed, and nosed at Oliver’s hand.
“I know it’s early, Robert. I know.”
Oliver squinted at the clock, then sat up. Once awake, he would not attempt to go back to sleep. Not at the beginning of the week, anyway. Too many questions and problems and situations humming about his subconscious.
Work and women, he thought to himself. The first I could expect, but not the women part of it.
He hurried to the shower and was dressed and ready by 4:15. Too early for hammering, Oliver found his sweatshirt and Robert’s twenty-foot retractable leash. Robert made a grand show of stretching and yawning and stretching again, both back legs and front legs, twice each, as if he were pretending to be some sort of Olympic runner getting ready for a long practice session.
Oliver knew there were two or three coffee shops in Shadyside, only a few blocks away, that would probably be open this early. At least he hoped they would be open. Two of them had sidewalk tables. Oliver could get a coffee, a newspaper, and a sweet roll or something and sit outside with Robert.
It was dark and almost still as he walked down South Aiken and onto the main shopping street of Shadyside. The stores populating the area were the type that Oliver would never shop at—fancy jewelry stores, fancy women’s clothing stores, fancy “stuff” stores—all items overpriced and not at all practical. Oliver passed a men’s accessory store featuring a Rolex in the window—or at least it did when the store was open. All that was left on the velvet podium taking center stage in the display was an elegant sign, announcing a Rolex Daytona wristwatch and the price tag: $15,000.
